Building Castles in the Air
by YoungFreak92
Summary: In which House is once again dreaming. House/Wilson


**Title: **Building Castles in the Air  
**Author:** YoungFreak92  
**Beta:** aceofspades6  
**Fandom:** House MD  
**Rating:** R  
**Genre: **General  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson  
**Setting:** Anytime  
**Wordcount: **2 796  
**Feedback: **Yes please, I would love to hear what you think about this fic  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own _House_ or any of the characters. I'm just playing around a bit.  
**Summary:** In which House is once again dreaming.  
**Author's Note: **This is what happens when you have writer's block, drink too much Coca Cola, complain over the lack of dream!fics in the fandom and try to find inspiration from Imogen Heap's collected works. I'm not going to call this crack, because that was really not what I was aiming for, but it's darn well weird. I tried to portray how my dreams usually are, though this is still more coherent than the most of them. The fic also kind of wrote itself, so it turned out a bit lot smuttier than I had intended to. shifty eyes To tell the truth, I'm actually supposed to be working on my fic for wilsonfest, but as I said, writer's block. Bleh.

- - - - - - - - - -

You are lying on your back on the grass, hands under your head, looking at the sky above you. The earth is rough underneath you and the grass is tickling your face. A mild breeze caresses your body, and in the corner of your eyes you see flowers sway. As you breathe through your nose, you can smell them as well as the grass and earth and the unique scent of summer. You hear a bee buzz gently as it flies by.

You look at the sky and watch the clouds and how they slowly glide across it. Their shapes only remind you of pleasant things, and you feel calm for once, almost on the verge of drowsy. You're pulled out of your indolence however when you hear a peculiar hum. Opening your half-closed eyes you see an aeroplane. A thin line of white smoke creates a trail after it. In a few seconds another plane appears, this one faster than the first. You watch them curiously as they race in the sky. Slowly, your field of vision narrows until there is just a perfectly round circle in which you see the aeroplanes -- the rest is darkness.

You look up from your microscope and around the classroom. There are thirty or more other students present, sitting three and three in endless rows of rickety school tables. Some of the students are skinny as skeletons and others are too heavy -- only one of two of them are looking like normal human beings. You are one of the lanky ones. You glance at the figure that is standing by the blackboard. The teacher looks stern and surly, so you quickly duck your head.

Your bum feels sore from sitting the hard and uncomfortable chair, and your neck and shoulders ache from sitting hunched over tables for too long. You look down into the microscope again and see the sky and the aeroplanes. You turn slightly on one of the wheels on the side of the microscope, and you zoom in on one of the aeroplanes. You keep on turning, keep on zooming and as you do, your field of vision widen. The microscope's circle becomes bigger and bigger until you can see the sky and the aeroplane -- aero_plane_, singular, you're so close now that you can almost touch it -- as clearly as with your own eyes. You _are _seeing it with your own eyes. You are levitating in the air.

You start to fall. The aeroplane becomes smaller with rapid speed as you fall down, your back facing the earth. You can't see anything but the sky, you have no idea of how far it is to the ground. The wind is roaring in your ears and tugging at your limbs. Your stomach feels like it's full of butterflies, and you feel dizzy. You screw your eyes shut and prepare yourself for the inevitable clash with the ground.

It never comes.

You open your eyes and see that you're at home, on your couch. It's early morning or late afternoon, soft sunlight slinking in through the windows and tainting everything golden. You're only dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, and you get up from the couch lazily. You manage two and a half steps before you fall down onto the floor. You land on your left side, and it protests violently. Alarmed, you look down at your legs. Your left one is functioning, but your right one is immovable. You can't even curl your toes, let alone bend your knee. You try to lift it but you can't, it's too heavy. You don't even feel the hands you have placed on it. You pinch your thigh, but you're not feeling that either.

Ice-cold dread fills you and you stare at the ugly scar as if it would have the answer. You're not moving your gaze from your leg, as if you're afraid it will disappear if you look away, and you call for help. Your voice has a frantic edge to it, but you don't care. You keep on calling, hoping someone will come. You are just about to give up when you see another pair of hands lay down on your leg. A man's hands. Familiar hands. You let go of your grip on your thigh and let the other's hands sweep over your leg. A soft voice whispers soothing nonsense in your ear, also that familiar to you.

He starts to massage your leg and slowly, slowly you regain your sense of feeling. It stings, as if you've got a million pins and needles in your leg. In spite of that you let him continue. More and more of the leg starts to sting, the feeling intensifying every second. It hurts so much it brings tears to your eyes, but you still don't stop him. Eventually you have full control of your leg again, and you shakily try to stand up. He is instantly at your side, letting you lean and pull on him as you rise up. You stand on wobbly legs, still clutching his biceps for dear life. He gently removes your hands from his arms and holds them. You still manage to stand. He slowly lets go of your hands.

You manage to stand all by your own.

You hear him say something, something gentle, and then he turns around and starts to leave. Your reach out your hand to him, call out for him to come back, but he doesn't appear to hear you. No matter how much you call for him, you see his figure become smaller and smaller as he walks away. You don't really notice that your surroundings fade to a white nothing, you only see your friend disappearing.

Your throat it dry and rasping, sore from all the shouting. You place your hands on your knees and lean on them, gasping for breath. Your leg doesn't hurt anymore, if anything you can only feel a dull throb. You still glare at the nasty scar as if everything is its fault. Hissing insults and maledictions at it, you try to push aside the feeling of loneliness inside you. You fall silent after a while, but you keep on glaring at the scar. Then it suddenly, as by a miracle, starts to disappear, healthy muscle taking its place. You watch mesmerized as your disfigured thigh regains its original form. Not even a trace is left of the scar. You put your full weight on your leg. It doesn't hurt. You try taking a step. It doesn't hurt. You try jumping. It doesn't hurt.

You look up, a huge grin plastered on your face, and you see that the nothingness has transformed into a green meadow. The sky is clear, the air is warm, a forest glimmers on the horizon and no one else is there. You take a leap with joy and start to run, just because you can. Your pulse quickens, wind whispers in your ear and your breathing becomes labored. It feels wonderful. For a good while, the only sounds are your feet rustling the grass and your own breathing, but then another pair of feet is heard.

You suddenly feel someone breathing on your neck, and you snap your head around. A familiar face split up in a smile meets you. He is younger, you note, probably somewhere around twenty-five, about the same age as when you first met him. With a laugh he suggests you two should race to the forest, and you eagerly agree. You speed up, and soon all you can see is the tumbling of limbs and all you can hear is gasping and laughter. Suddenly you feel how you trip, and you close your eyes and raise your arms to brace yourself. You don't make contact with the ground however, because he grabs your T-shirt by the back and hauls you back onto your feet.

You open your eyes and see that you're at the hospital. Glancing at your side, you are met by the same smile as last time, although he is now dressed as a doctor -- as an _intern_, a _first year _resident. He's still looking so ridiculously _young_, floppy brown hair hanging down in his eyes and he is fresh-faced and pretty. The only thing that _isn't_ pretty and boyish about him is the glint in his eyes -- it's both mischievous and tantalizing. He tells you with a grin that he'll see you later and hurries down the corridor.

You watch at him as he disappears around a corner and then you turn around and start to walk in another direction. To your surprise you feel how someone pulls at your shirtsleeve and you turn your head around. He is already back, though his hair is ruffled and his eyes are sparkling -- he looks most of all like a naughty young boy. Before you have time to make a remark about that he tells you to follow him and lets go of his grip on you. He once again hurries down the corridor, this time looking over his shoulder to make sure you're following. You are. You're running behind him as the two of you race in the corridors, bickering and shouting and breaking at least a dozen different hospital rules.

Suddenly he slams on the brakes and grabs you by the shirt-collar to make sure you do too. You turn around to complain about the yank, but he places a finger against his lips in a hushing motion. You shut your mouth and frown slightly as he opens a door, and he looks around to make sure no one is watching. He slinks inside, gesturing for you to follow. You do, and as soon as you're inside he shuts the door and locks it. It's pitch-dark inside, but you know you're in a closet. You ask what he is planning to do, but he doesn't answer.

You are just about to ask again when he whispers in your ear to close your eyes and place your hands before them. You point out that it's rather pointless since you already can't see a thing, but he urges you on till you obey. With an exaggerated sigh you do as you're told, trying to think about something else than the warm puffs of breath that hits the side of your neck. You tell him you're ready, but once again you don't receive an answer. Instead he starts to spin you, and it doesn't take long until you're feeling dizzy. Then he suddenly stops. You wait for a moment, but nothing more happens.

You remove your hands from your eyes and find yourself in a familiar office. You are struck by a sudden feeling of being caged, imprisoned by starched and ironed shirt and slacks. The lab coat feels like a weight on your shoulders, and the tie around your neck reminds you most of all of a noose. You feel like you're being held captive in your own body.

A morning passes by quickly as you meet patients in both the office and in their rooms. More than half of them are annoying, some you can't even stand, but you instantly feel guilty for despising them. The patients are sick, disgustingly many of them are going to _die_, their lives are being turned upside-down and they deserve your pity. So you smile at them and play nice. A nurse clings on you and the assistant is driving you crazy, but instead of snapping their heads off, you smile kindly and talk with gentle words. You think you are about to go insane.

You are on your way to lunch when you spot him. He is walking down the corridor with his team in a tow, grumbling and taunting. He looks so very rebellious with his unruly hair and rock T-shirt, wrinkled green shirt, black jacket, faded jeans and sneakers. He now notices you and your eyes lock for a moment. You watch him wave away his team, most likely with a sarcastic remark, and as the fellows scurry away, he hurries to your side.

He greets you with a demand to be fed. You ask him if he can't pay for his own food for once, and the two of you fall into familiar bantering as you head for the cafeteria. As your mouth is on autopilot, you smile slightly and just take in the sight of him. You feel like the chains that hold you back loosen a little, and the feeling of impending madness eases a little. You don't have to pretend when you are with him, you are allowed to be just as caustic and bitter as he is. In spite of that you are still smiling and using kind words, but this time it is out of choice, and it makes all the difference. Your smile widens as the two of you walk through the doors of the cafeteria.

You enter a stage, alone. The club is dark and smoky and crammed with people. Nameless band members greet you and tell you that you're right on time. One of them pushes an electric guitar into your arms and another ushers you to the microphone. After you've been placed you look around, feeling slightly bewildered and maybe even a bit nostalgic. It is just as if you're twenty again, right down to the clothes you're wearing. A deafening bass-line begins to play and the last traces of doubt wash away from you as the music takes you in.

It's hot, it's clammy, it's loud and it's absolutely wonderful. Your pulse beats in time with the music and your body vibrates with it. Your fingers fly over the guitar, your voice expresses everything you want to say and you feel alive. The crowd is cheering and shouting and you notice smugly that there are many attractive women present. You run your gaze over the crowd, half-unconsciously looking for someone, and you find who you're looking for by the bar in the far away corner.

He is leaning back against the counter, resting his elbows against the surface, and you can see the grin on his face despite the distance between you. He looks a little out of place dressed in jeans and that sweatshirt you will forever associate with him, but no one else seems to care. You keep on looking at him, and after a few seconds he notices it. He nods his head and raises the glass he is holding to you. You feel a smile tug at your lips, and a feeling you would almost describe as happiness spreads from your chest. You close your eyes, and it almost feels like you're fading out -- the music dies away, the thick air thins out and everything turns into a black nothingness.

When you open your eyes you are in a different situation entirely.

Heat. Sweat-slicked bodies moving against each other. Groans and labored breathing and the sound of skin on skin the only sounds in the air. You don't bother pondering over how you and he ended up in this situation, how the two of you ended up in _your bed_. It feels good and it doesn't hurt, so you are not about to complain.

You pause for a second to look at him. He is laying on his back, the dark green of your sheets a sharp contrast to the pale-flushed shade of his skin. His dark hair is mussed, his cheeks aflame, his lips red and slightly parted. He gazes at you with dark, dark eyes under half-closed eyelids, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He is beautiful. His hand touches your chest and you snap out of your awe-struck moment and continue your actions from earlier.

He calls your name. He says it with a gasp, with a whimper, with a moan, with a sigh, with a sob, in a prayer. He chants it over and over again, both whispering it and crying it out. It's one of the sweetest sounds you've ever heard, and you eagerly lap it all up, forcing more out of him with a movement of your hips or a caress of your hand. You kiss him again and again and again, by all probability on the verge of devouring him.

He lies in your arms, everything around you two a building crescendo, both of you are shuddering and your movements are erratic. He brushes his lips against the shell of your ear, whispering and gasping. You close your eyes, savoring every second of this bliss. He lays a hand on your arm and lets it slowly slide down to your hand, and grasps it.

"House..."

You wake up.


End file.
